


Sore Spot

by EntreNous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bruises, Healers, M/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-15
Updated: 2010-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius's opportunity to play for the Appleby Arrows has one sore spot: James Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sore Spot

**Author's Note:**

> Posted at Daily Deviant for the July 2010 theme of "Touch". Bruising kink ahoy!

"Don't see why I have to stay behind with you lot," Scorpius grumbled to the Beater lounging on the treatment bed next to his. "I've only a few bruises, after all."

His teammate shrugged and glanced about, obviously checking to see if one of their team's Healers was finally headed their way.

They had been waiting ages after the match, but it looked as though they had time yet to wait. Though most of the other Appleby Arrows departed as soon as they were pronounced fit for the pubs and post-match celebrations, or warned to get straight home and rest before their match two days hence, a few players lingered to claim the attention of the two frazzled Assistant Healers.

Scorpius gave an annoyed huff as he watched the Assistants cast more diagnostic spells and consult with one another before administering potions. He rubbed his thumb over the most prominent bruise on his right arm. "You know, back at Hogwarts, I doubt my Head of House would have bothered sending me to the hospital wing for only getting knocked about like this."

The other man, Cavendish, looked around warily. "Well, you're not playing on a school team, now, are you? Look, I think it's stupid; we all do. But it's part of the Arrows' regulations. No one injured, no matter how minor the damage, leaves the infirmary until the Head Healer says he can." Despite his faithful iteration of the team's strict policy, Cavendish had a sly look as he glanced to his left and to his right. When he appeared convinced no one had an eye on them, he shifted off the bed and stood, gingerly testing his weight on his wounded ankle. He let out a deep breath and nodded at Scorpius. "Perhaps we're not bad off if they've left us for last. Might not need any treatment at all, I imagine."

Scorpius grimaced as he began to follow suit, first sitting up straight on his own bed. He immediately schooled his pained expression into one of boredom in case anyone glanced his way. He wasn't certain what made him most uncomfortable: the aches and bruises caused by the well-aimed opponent Quaffles; the embarrassing memory of how relentlessly he had been slammed about by the Tornadoes' Beaters during his short time on the pitch during his very first professional match; or how ridiculous he felt waiting for ages to be treated for the most minor of injuries. He didn't wish to add to his troubles by having anyone think he was acting like a child about his small hurts.

"Will we get caught if we sneak out?" Scorpius asked in a low voice. With no one in evidence approaching them, he carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Technically, we _can't_ sneak out without them knowing whether we're truly hurt first." Cavendish's expression turned half-thoughtful, half-furtive. "But I feel all right now; don't you? We could give it a go--" Then he stopped speaking and winced as his leg nearly gave way.

"Did I -- or anyone else, for that matter -- say you could stand, Cavendish?" As Head Healer James Potter called out from the other side of the room he grinned, but Scorpius heard the edge of warning to his voice.

The two Assistant Healers looked up from treating Murray, the team's star Chaser, and shared a worried glance. It seemed clear to Scorpius what they were thinking: they likely ought not to have left two waiting players to their own devices this long as they fussed over the others, even a reserve player such as Scorpius.

"No, Healer Potter," Cavendish said with a sigh. "I just thought --"

Potter pointed at the bed Cavendish had so recently vacated. The Beater sighed, but heaved himself back up onto it.

"Right. You too, Malfoy," Potter said.

"What? I'm not even --" Scorpius gestured to show he was still on his treatment bed.

Potter merely shook his head.

Scorpius scowled at Potter's back as soon as he turned away. Really, that was perhaps the worst of it -- after a shameful showing on the pitch while the starting Seeker had a brief moment to check a possible injury, he had to wait at James Potter's pleasure before he was allowed to leave the stadium grounds.

It had been bad enough dealing with the Potters at school, watching their easy popularity, resenting their natural aptitude at sport and academics, and envying their careless bearing of that famous family name. Just his luck the only team offering him a position after two years of trying had to have a Potter as a prominent staff member.

With a resentful exhalation, Scorpius collapsed back into a reclining position. He had to shut his eyes briefly against the throbbing in his torso the movement caused him, and tried to stave off more discomfort with several deep breaths.

In the background, Potter spoke in a low voice to the two Assistants, and Cavendish grumbled as he continued to wait. At least it wouldn't be long now.

 

 

*~*

 

 

Blinking awake -- he must have fallen asleep, Scorpius realized with some confusion -- he turned on the bed in time to see Potter himself carefully handling and then bending Cavendish's ankle.

"That _hurts_ ," Cavendish complained.

"I expect it does," James Potter murmured. "You've twisted it terribly, and, as I recall saying when you limped in here, you're not to put any of your weight on it until my say-so. And yet what did I just see you doing just a little while ago?"

"Testing it a bit," Cavendish mumbled.

"Ah." Potter gave the ankle an appraising look as he tweaked it, to the immediate accompaniment of Cavendish's pained whimper. "No doubt you've strained it further."

Scorpius glanced down at the prominent bruise on his thigh -- still there, so no one had treated him while he dozed -- and then looked about for the other Healers. The Assistants were gone, however; Potter must have dismissed them. He shifted uneasily; from what he'd seen of the other players treated, it seemed they generally dealt with the Assistant Healers and then left on Potter's approval. This was the first time he had viewed Potter himself check on someone.

"Can't you just heal it and let me leave?" Cavendish said finally as Potter prodded the swollen skin with his fingertips.

"No." Potter didn't even glance up. "This is the ankle you've injured before, yeah?"

"Yeah." Cavendish's shoulders slumped.

"Three matches ago, it was -- and last season, against the Cannons, I think?"

"The Harpies," Cavendish corrected miserably.

Potter crossed the room and picked up a folder, jotting down notes with the quill he'd had tucked behind his ear.

"When's he going to let you go?" Scorpius whispered.

"Dunno." Cavendish drummed his good heel against the bed impatiently. "I thought it was just a strain."

"If you're such a special case, I don't see why he can't deal with me first instead." Scorpius peered over at Potter, who seemed absorbed in his notes. "It's ridiculous, really; a few dabs of Bruise Removal Paste and I could just --"

"After special treatment, are we, Malfoy?" Potter spoke in a normal voice, as though he was right next to them, when in reality he should have been far away enough not to have overheard.

"No," Scorpius answered after a pause.

"I hear that's common in your family," Potter continued. He let the folder fall to the desk next to him and ambled back, his hands in his pockets.

Scorpius remained silent, staring at a spot on the floor next to Potter's mucked-up trainers when the other man came to a halt. Part of him longed to lash out, shouting it was a lie his family wanted special treatment. It was the most private of sore spots among many concerning Scorpius's family. Maybe they had done in the past, but as far as Scorpius's dad was concerned, blending in was the best a Malfoy could hope for these days. He had drummed into Scorpius's head what kinds of dangers arose from trying to stand out, after all.

But of course Scorpius wouldn't raise his voice if he could help it. He'd been trained since he was small to clamp down on those sorts of impulses, though he couldn't help having them all the same sometimes. It had been hard in many ways, given his background, finding a way to realize his dream of playing professional Quidditch while trying _not_ to stand out. Scorpius had struggled for years while his father counseled him not to attempt showy or brash behavior.

Though he showed early promise as a Seeker, Scorpius's house team had performed abysmally all his years at school, and he hadn't gotten any proper offers to play after Hogwarts. He fought hard to show his talents just to gain a place on a minor league team, all the while dealing with his father's meaningful suggestions that he'd best pursue something less public, less competitive. It was no use asking his father to explore what few connections they had to help Scorpius discover any chance of trying for a team. Scorpius watched numerous classmates go on to careers with a lift from people their families knew, while his father remained wary of helping Scorpius's chances in any ways that weren't completely above board.

How much easier would it have been to be born a Potter, brash and cocky, fully expecting and receiving every advantage and attention?

Now that Scorpius finally earned a position (though a reserve one) with the Appleby Arrows, he wasn't about to let Potter goad him into a blunder that could cost him his place. It galled him to step with such care around a man only a few years older than himself, around someone who had been at school with him (though besides being older, James Potter had been far too popular and important to ever interact with Scorpius while they had been at Hogwarts).

When it became clear Scorpius wasn't going to answer, Potter turned his attentions back to Cavendish. Scorpius kept his head down and gritted his teeth to wait.

"Off you go," Potter said at last to Cavendish.

"Later, mate." Cavendish hopped off his bed and shot off with his newly-healed ankle without as much as a backwards glance for Scorpius.

Potter returned to the desk across the room and picked up first one, then another folder.

Scorpius waited.

Potter frowned at something in the second folder before leaning over to rummage in one of the desk drawers. He found a stack of parchments and shuffled through them before finding the one he wanted.

"It's just some bruising," Scorpius blurted. "I could put the paste on myself, even, if you --"

"Trying to tell me how to do my work?" Potter asked. He leaned forward on the desk, his face showing clear interest. He seemed keen for Scorpius to hit a stumbling block.

Scorpius bit the inside of his cheek. "No."

"Well, then." Potter returned to him and stared for a moment.

Scorpius resisted the temptation to hold his arm out to demonstrate the first of his bruises and instead awaited Potter's move.

"In a rush to get to your family? I suppose they're waiting for you?" Potter asked conversationally. He still hadn't moved toward Scorpius or produced anything like the Bruise Removal Paste.

"No, they're -- they didn't come to the match." Scorpius swallowed.

"Seems odd." Potter reached out and traced the edges of one of the smaller bruises on Scorpius's calf. "Being your first match, and all that."

There was the faintest of sensations, not pain but rather a low buzzing, from Potter's touch. Scorpius stared at the fingertip that mapped the outline of purpling skin. "No, I told them not -- I didn't think I would get to fly today."

"You're only a reserve player," Potter observed.

To this Scorpius said nothing. Obviously that was the case. Potter had been with the team a few years now, moving to the Head Healer position at the end of last season (one of the youngest Head Healers in the British and Irish Quidditch League, Scorpius remembered reading in the _Daily Prophet_ ). So he very well knew who exactly typically played what position.

Potter lifted his hand, sliding it up Scorpius's leg to the larger bruise on his thigh. Scorpius had taken off the protective gear and outer uniform, as they were supposed to when in the treatment area, but just now Scorpius wished he had on the regulation outfit instead of sitting there in his pants and a t-shirt.

"They really came at you today, eh?"

Scorpius shrugged. He wouldn't be lured into complaining by Potter's roundabout leads.

"It's because you have potential. If they thought you were rubbish, they wouldn't have bothered. So you need to learn how to protect yourself better," Potter observed.

It was with some effort Scorpius didn't let his jaw drop. He expected Potter to make a snide comment about his abilities, or even imply that a Malfoy deserved some roughing up for daring to think himself worthy of a team like the Arrows. And yet he had, if Scorpius wasn't completely mistaken, complimented him.

"You'll pick up tips on how to do that from the captain and others as you practice," Potter continued. He used his fingertips to span the edges of the bruise and pressed lightly.

Scorpius took a sharp breath.

Potter met his gaze. "Hurts?"

"Stings," Scorpius answered. His voice had gone hoarse for some reason.

"Hmm." Potter stroked over the heated surface of the bruise, and inexplicably, Scorpius felt as if the area warmed further. "Anyone else waiting for you?"

"Er..." Scorpius's lips had parted at some point, and he licked them now to keep them from going dry. "I -- no." And truthfully, there was no one waiting, though it escaped him why Potter needed to inquire after such a thing.

"I see." Both of Potter's hands were on his thigh now, grasping the area around the bruise gently. "From the Quaffle, or player contact?"

"Quaffle. I think." Scorpius couldn't look away from Potter's fingers, long and slim, caressing the slightly swollen discoloration. Potter had yet to check him with a diagnostic spell or suggest a potion, though his touch had a kind of care and testing to it.

"And this?" Potter's right hand slid down to push down lightly on the smaller bruise on Scorpius's calf.

"Oh, er. Broom, when the Beater slammed into me."

"Hmm." Potter squeezed the smaller bruise at the same time that he rubbed the bruise on Scorpius's thigh.

"Oh," Scorpius said in a faint voice. The ache had returned, but not painful exactly anymore. The sensation tingled at the spot and radiated out, sending a shiver up Scorpius's spine.

When he looked up, Potter watched him intently. "Tired?"

"What?" Scorpius asked thickly. Potter's left hand remained on his thigh, its warmth oddly welcome against the ache.

"You nodded off for a short while."

"Oh, I --" Scorpius no longer felt certain what was happening. Was Potter checking him for injuries? Implying he liked attention and special treatment? Giving him advice on how he should behave on the pitch, or in the treatment room, in the future?

"You looked as if you could use it," Potter said softly. "When I was watching you, I mean." And at that, he slid his left hand further up Scorpius's thigh.

Scorpius opened his mouth but no sound came out. Potter was -- there was no question about it, he was stroking Scorpius's upper thigh, just a breath away from his cock, and Scorpius was getting harder. Yes, no, this wasn't the start but the continuation of a slow-burn of arousal that now caught up to him. When had he begun to harden, when Potter touched one of his bruises for the first time, or when the pressure he applied against them sent a tantalizing humming along Scorpius's skin?

Bits of information were mixing and recombining in a heady swirl -- Potter had said something about watching him while he slept; the way he fondled Scorpius's aches and sore points aroused him; Potter's right hand had risen to grasp his arm just where it had gone off-color and tender from a Quaffle hit.

"Right there, you were hit?" James asked in a whisper. His expression held the same keen interest it had earlier.

"Yes." Scorpius's voice dropped to a whisper as well. He felt his eyes flutter shut at the confusing sensation -- part pain he flinched away from, part ache he wanted to savour, part shiver-inducing awareness of feeling what would have been a regular touch magnified through the lens of hurting.

"Hmm." James moved his hand away from Scorpius's thigh for a moment, using both hands to prod at his arm before moving to his torso. "May I?" he asked formally, with a touch to Scorpius's t-shirt.

Scorpius reached back to yank off the shirt, but he cringed at the soreness that ratcheted up to pain all of a sudden.

"Sssh," James crooned, as though he was settling a compelling wounded animal, the type of exotic, shy creature who wouldn't allow anyone to touch it unless it had already been hurt. "Let me, all right?"

A nod was all Scorpius could manage before James Potter slipped the t-shirt over his head and moved his warm hands to glide over Scorpius's chest, over his sides, along his back.

Before he knew it, Scorpius had pitched forward slightly, leaning his forehead on James's shoulder, breathing hard. And James's arms were around him all the way, no longer just supporting or touching, but embracing, and Scorpius's head swam with the confusion and pleasure of it all.

"Oh," Scorpius breathed as James rubbed the heel of his palm over a sore spot that extended from his side to his back.

"Am I making it worse?" James whispered into his ear.

"No," Scorpius said in a shaky voice. "I --" He stopped, unsure what to say next. They had somehow gone past the point of asking what it was James thought he was doing, past Scorpius shying away from this touch that had gone beyond treatment.

James stilled, waiting for him to speak.

"A bit higher," Scorpius said at last, his voice strained.

James drew his palm up, and paused. Scorpius shivered, turning his head to duck against James's neck. "There, just -- harder," he whispered, and all at once James had tugged his head back by his hair, pressing their mouths together as soon as they could meet. And all the while Scorpius started in surprise, parting his lips in pleasure, James rubbed and stroked along the bruise, sending tingling wave after wave through Scorpius's body.

What had seemed a gradual shift closer turned frantic as James yanked Scorpius forward and fully into his hold, as Scorpius lifted his legs around James's waist in a cage to catch and keep him.

It wasn't only the thrill of his erection meeting James's hard length through layers of fabric, but the bruise of Scorpius's thigh pressed tight against James's hip that made Scorpius drop his head back and cry out.

"I like the way these look on you," James panted into his ear as they began to roll their hips against each other. The sharp grip against Scorpius's arm left no doubt as to what he meant, and Scorpius made a small desperate noise as he pushed harder into James's hold. "Like the way you feel," James muttered, biting the soft lobe. "Here, and here," as his hand skimmed over ache to regular sensation, from bruise to unblemished skin.

"Here," Scorpius urged, drawing James's lips to his neck, and gasping as James mouthed and sucked hard. His hips jerked forward and as he came with a low wail, James's arms enfolded him, holding him through the tremors. All the aches and points of pain no longer felt like shameful traces of his poor performance in the match, but live points of contact, ripening as James stroked and caressed and pressed them into marks connecting them both.

When he fell back, James followed, tipping forward on top of him to rub and grind until, with a hoarse shout, he rode through his spasms against Scorpius's bruised, welcoming body.

They breathed hard, sprawled in a tangle of limbs, until Scorpius cleared his throat.

"I--" He started, and then stopped. "Now what do we --" He frowned, and pressed his lips together.

"Now we see to these," James said gently, trailing his index finger down the bruise on Scorpius's arm.

Scorpius nodded stiffly as James handed him his t-shirt before going to fetch the curative.

While James spread the Bruise Removal Paste quickly and efficiently on Scorpius's damaged skin, Scorpius looked down, unsure what to say next.

James straightened, starting to wipe his hands on a cloth. "It's working already. Those will fade straight away."

"Fine. Thanks," Scorpius muttered. He eased off the bed, and made as if to move.

"Wait." James caught his arm. "Except this one, I think," James murmured. He touched the slight welt on Scorpius's neck, the one he had made with his mouth, and left untreated. Then he tipped Scorpius's chin up with his finger, bringing their lips together for a brief, soft kiss.

"All right," Scorpius said hoarsely. The tingle from his neck and his mouth spread and met until his cheeks flushed.

"It is going against policy, I suppose. But that's one bruise I'll let you leave with," James said with a grin, thumbing over the swelling on Scorpius's neck.

"It'll probably be gone when you see me next," Scorpius offered suddenly. "In two days, I mean, at the next match."

"Hmm." James stroked the spot thoughtfully, with a clinical appreciation and a proprietary air. "We'll just have to see what we can do about putting it back, then."


End file.
